


You're in My Blood Like Holy Wine

by Erradianwhocantread



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Rule 63, Secret Relationship, weird elf telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erradianwhocantread/pseuds/Erradianwhocantread
Summary: Fingon and Maedhros decide to spend some time away from disapproving family members backpacking in the mountains. What could possibly go wrong?





	You're in My Blood Like Holy Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lsusanna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lsusanna/gifts).



> Rule 63 Fingon and Maedhros. Both are adults but still young enough to think this is a good idea. For the purposes of this fic, there is no homophobia in elf society.

“It’ll be fine,” Maedhros had stated confidently. “It takes more than a kiss to wed. We’ll keep our clothes on, and it won’t happen.”

Fingon had been more than a little disappointed by the proposed arrangement at the time. They were in love. Why should they not wed as any other couple in Tirion? She didn’t, generally, think of herself as something shameful. Why should she? But the way Maedhros talked about the two of them together or just… assumed that a marriage was a preposterous idea that neither of them would want hurt for reasons she couldn’t adequately explain. But it hadn’t hurt badly enough to discourage her from following her heart’s choice from the city.

They’d been giddy, away from prying eyes, in the foothills of the Pelori. They’d run down hollows, climbed trees, jumped in quick-running frigid streams, laughed and laughed and laughed, as Laurelin waxed and then waned. They must have lost track of time sitting in the thicket listening to the birdsongs, for Fingon found herself surprised, when she lifted her head from Maedhros’s shoulder, to see her friend's bright hair purpled and shimmering with silver light. Maedhros turned towards her, and Fingon's heart flipped over in her chest at Maedhros's hazy, affectionate smile and the embers burning low behind her eyes. Her own eyes slid down to the meadow-plants as her ears started to burn. This was pure torment: her heart’s choice so close, Maedhros sharing her inclination, their minds, spirits, bodies yearning towards each other, knowing they could never join! And Maedhros, of course, with her uncanny ability to know  _exactly_  where lines were, and  _exactly_  how close one could or could not get to them, had devised a way to indulge that provided no ease: they could still open their minds to each other, but only as far as they would for anyone. They could touch, and hold each other, as they always had, and even kiss, but there were rules. How were they to endure an eternity of this???

Fingon’s frustrated reverie was broken by long, slender fingers at her jaw, tilting her head up. She gulped. Maedhros’s face was terribly close to hers, and she looked… solemn, reverent. This wasn’t the way one looked at one’s friend or kin. It was the way one would look at the Trees, or the stars, or a Silmaril. “What are you thinking, my love?” Maedhros asked, her voice rasping and low for reasons Fingon didn’t know if she could afford to understand. She opened her mouth to try to answer, but Maedhros deftly slid her thumb over her parted lips. “Show me,” she said, her eyes burning into Fingon’s.

Fingon reached out with her mind, her heart fluttering under the light probing touches of Maedhros’s, listening to the little gasps and sighs as Maedhros felt her love, her admiration, her nameless nervousness, her longing and her sorrow. And she could feel Maedhros as well, her yearning blazing as hot as the fires in Aule’s forge, her careful patience and steadfast faith that this was worth an eternity of waiting in tantalizing torment if that meant doing it correctly, her blasphemous esteem for Fingon, as high at least as her esteem for the Powers, the soft-yellow charm that all Fingon’s supposed shortcomings suffused her with…

The fingers at Fingon’s chin pressed her up and forward, and she wanted to follow, but… the light of Telperion was mottled here, patches of star-speckled dark mingling with pools of silver light, glinting off the rushing mountain stream nearby, and it was too close to what they must not do. “We shouldn’t,” Fingon barely managed as Maedhros’s nose brushed against hers, sending a shock down her spine at once cold and warm. “It’ll be fine,” Maedhros responded with honeyed confidence, “we’ll keep our clothes on. It takes more than a kiss of mind and lips to wed.”

Fingon had trusted her fiercely, as she had since Maedhros had saved her from shame at one of their grandfather’s horrible gatherings, had let her guide her forward, press their lips softly and insistently together. She wrapped herself in that spirit warm as a hearth, firm as adamant, proud as the peaks of the mountains they rested under, and longing for her as the sea longed towards the shore. Light and time and sense shimmered about her, glowing, undulating, that sweet warmth seeping into her and melding until she wasn’t sure if it was Maedhros’s tongue she felt in her mouth, or her own in Maedhros’s, until she felt the sensation of her own hands on her lover’s scalp as fully as she felt Maedhros’s hair under her fingertips and tangling about her knuckles, until she felt that determined patience as fully as her own strange shame….

Fingon didn’t know how long they stayed thus, or when they slipped into a shared dream (They were fire, one of them the light it cast, one of them its heat, their love blazing in a darkened world). But golden light filled their thicket when they awoke. Fingon reached under her back to find the stone that had so rudely poked her only to realize the stone was not under her back at all, but under Maedhros’s. Which could only mean…

She sprang up. Maedhros was already sitting, her hands clutching her hair and her face pale and frantic. “But you said… we were so careful… it shouldn’t have…” Fingon stammered as the full weight of what they had just unwittingly done sank into her. They stared at each other, gaping, for what felt like the entire span of Arda. In unison, breaking the peace of the thicket they blurted “My parents are going to kill me!” 


End file.
